weep for columbia
by BittersweetSonata
Summary: Elizabeth, the aftermath, and all that is left. —elizabeth ო booker


**notes: **this _game. _it is beautifully terrifying. song _is _'youth' by daughter. perfect for elizabeth, in my opinion.

**setting: **in canon, post fall of columbia

**disclaimer: **i do not own bioshock: infinite.

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_one day we'll reveal the truth, _

_that one will die before he gets there._

_and if you're still bleeding, __you're the lucky ones_

_'cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone._

_and you caused it._

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Elizabeth stands over the body of her savior, the man who had rescued and condemned her all at once. Her heart still beats a thousand miles an hour against her chest, and she feels like she can't catch her breath. The air is still, warm and sunny, but quiet. Somewhere among the trees, a blue jay screams, and then all that's left is the sound of the breeze and her own ragged breathing.

She averts her eyes downward, to the body of Booker DeWitt, the man who would never be reborn. He was not a hero—if anything, he was a villain. He had killed, maimed, and destroyed lives. But then, so had she.

She looks at her hands, washed clean by the very water she'd drowned her rescuer in. In her mind, they're stained vermilion—with the blood of Daisy Fitzroy and Booker DeWitt—and that is all she can see. Sickening shades of carmine, rust, and auburn, and there is nothing else. In a desperate attempt to get rid of the blood that _isn't _there, she wipes her hands on her skirt. Over and over and over again. But the image is permanently burned into her brain, and suddenly there's a lump in her throat she can't swallow.

Elizabeth raises her head and tries to breathe. Her sapphire orbs burn as they flit about the landscape, searching for something, _anything. _But she is alone. There are no alternate versions of her; it is just her and her alone. It terrifies her. Everyone else has disappeared, and she is the only one left.

For the first time in her life, she is really, truly alone. And she is terrified.

All she can see is water, trees, and _blood_—even though it's not really there. Her vision is stained red, and she wants to scream but the screams won't come. All at once she feels sick, her stomach is churning and her head _hurts. _She clamps her hands over her ears and screws her eyes shut. But all she can see and hear are the sights of a burning and dying Columbia, and the horrified screams of its inhabitants.

She had been brave, but that bravery has worn off and all that is left is the fear gnawing away at every part of her. Tears burn in her closed eyes, and they spill over onto her grimy cheeks. She didn't want any of this to happen, it wasn't supposed to _be _this way. But maybe it was. Maybe Booker was supposed to die from the beginning, and maybe she was the one who was supposed to kill him.

All for the greater good of the world.

But the world is so_ wrong_.

Elizabeth laughs, and it's strangled and twisted with a sob. She opens her eyes, and looks heavenward. The sky is impossibly blue, too blue, and she hates it. She doesn't take a single step forward, and makes no attempt to move. Instead, she remains immobile, counting her losses and thinking the worst.

_It all has to end. _

She is not Elizabeth Comstock. She _never_ wasthat girl—the Lamb, who would lead Columbia to victory and glory. Just like Booker wasn't the False Prophet. It was all some devious and dark scheme headed by a man who murdered those who knew too much. Who lied and stole and cheated his way in the world, while pretending to be a saint.

But he will never exist, and she is the only living being with any knowledge of him—of what _used _to be. He can't hurt her, or anyone else anymore, because he is gone. Dead in the past, and dead in the future because a good man had to die to keep him from being born.

She likes to think of him in that way—she only knew Booker as the man who saved her, who showed her a different life, and that freedom always comes with a price. She remembers Paris, and dancing along the Pier, and his promise that he'd wouldn't leave her.

_What a lie, _she smiles, but it wavers.

Sometimes, the line between good and evil is not all black and white. Sometimes it blurs, making a murky gray color, and people can't tell the difference between right and wrong. Or at least, that's what Elizabeth theorizes. But in the end, there is a decision to be made, and it doesn't matter whether you like it or not.

New York, or Paris? Kill Daisy Fitzroy and save the Founder boy, or let him die? Trust or run? Drown Booker, or find another way? Break the cycle, or live?

In the end, that cycle is harsh and unforgiving. In the end, the details don't really matter, and those decisions and choices you made don't change what is about to happen. It all ends the same.

All that is left is the sense of loneliness and the void of a hollow heart. She doesn't want to feel. She doesn't want to allow herself to dream. It's a breakdown cycle now—all about shutting down her overwhelming emotions because there are far too many of them. She can't keep up.

So Elizabeth steels herself, and clenches her not visibly stained fists at her side. The summer breeze kisses her dirty and tear-streaked cheeks, and she exhales.

She can't 'fix' the past—or rather, the _future_—but she can stop it from ever happening again. She doesn't have to witness the ones she cares about, the ones that _matter_, die before her eyes.

(They're already dead anyway.)

She is just Elizabeth now. The girl who once had the dream of moving to Paris. The girl who aided in killing a city that never existed. The girl who cared for a man that would never live. The girl who forced herself to drown the only person in the world that mattered to her to save the future. The girl who would not allow anything like this to happen, ever again. The girl who bleeds for the citizens and the man of an impossible dream.

She breathes out, through corrupted lungs, and takes the first step. The water moves with her as she makes her way out of it.

_Will the circle be unbroken? _

She reaches out a hand, and takes hold on the door handle.

_It will, it will. _

And she is _alive. _

But she feels dead on the inside.


End file.
